


Boromir's Path

by Noarev



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 'cause this is what happens when you go "I gotta write 1000 words on owls", M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:35:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noarev/pseuds/Noarev
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lost on a strange mountain path upon one starless night, Boromir stumbles his way into a strange mountain hall. An unlikely host offers shelter until the time to leave is right and Boromir receives an unexpected gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boromir's Path

**Author's Note:**

  * For [juin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juin/gifts).



> There's something delightful about having written this story, especially considering how it set upon the current course based on a whim.

To wander on a starless night seemed like a bad omen to most, more so when one could not even see the path spread before him. Barely able to make out his own hand through the thick fog, Boromir went on, one step at a time, sword at the ready. With an arm outstretched before him, he held close to the ravine’s wall, unwilling to make a target of himself by wandering down the middle of the mountain path.

“How longer must this wretched path go on,” he grumbled, almost stumbling when the rocky ground gave way under him. “What happened to the others,” he wondered, pulling himself to his feet and going forward. “Where could they have gone?”

It was what ate at him the most, not knowing what had befallen the rest of the Fellowship.

After every step taken along the mountain path, Boromir felt his strength fade as the air seemed slower to reach fill his chest with every breath. The notion that he was also somehow drifting farther away from the others had appeared in his head as well. It had come uncalled for, yet every instinct at his command insisted that it was plainly the truth.

Despite wishing he could look for them, he knew there was no hope of finding even the faintest track of their passing until morning arrived and maybe cut the fog to shreds. It would have been fine to feel the sun grace his face with its touch once again, yet all Boromir felt was a damp chill as if he were caught beneath a never-ending waterfall. Slowly, it wore at him until his each of steps was smaller and harder to make than those before it.

To stop, however...now _that_ would have been impossible.

A debt had been made between him and the others, an error on his part had almost doomed them all and it needed to be repaid. Until that moment when the scales had been evened, Boromir knew he could find no peace. Not when the rest of the Fellowship might be just as lost as he was, chased by the Uruk-hai that he had let pass.

He vaguely recalled fighting them until a sharp pain pushed him back, an ache that spread throughout his chest until there had been no strength left in his feet. Like any true son of Gondor, he had not knelt before the Enemy but fallen. There had been words as well, a swift trade with Aragorn that ended with the ranger’s tears and flight.

“He went to save the little ones,” Boromir grunted, finding a deeper strength inside him. “He went to mend that which I had failed to prevent.” The shaken steps became firm, the rubble crunching beneath his feet and the cold air he dragged into his chest with every breath. “I will find him and give aid.”

The oath was strong, simple.

It made him smile for Boromir knew of many who would say the same of him. When side by side with his younger brother, he felt there was no doubt on who possessed the sharper wits. His pride gave him strength to keep true to his path. The curiosity felt about Faramir’s reaction to their king’s return also drove him onward.

Yet the mountain path seemed endless.

His newfound hope had almost begun to fray when his hand locked around the ring of what looked like an ancient doorknocker mounted onto the very rock. A childish impulse led his arm to lift it high and bring it down onto the stone. Its sound spread throughout the ravine, sending pebbles sliding to the path from high above.

Boromir noticed nothing. His eyes spellbound by the way in which the stone shifted into a beautifully carved arch, a mouth into the mountain, the warrior prepared to face whatever witchcraft might come at him. Their wizard had been true, yet he did not doubt the Enemy had his own skilled servants. His sword in hand, he wandered into the darkness, drawn forward by the sharp bang of hammers on steel.

A childhood spent as a squire had given him an ear for the sounds of a blacksmith’s trade, though that did not mean a friend waited ahead. Careful, Boromir shuffled ahead through the darkness towards the flickering red light coming from a side tunnel. Damp air rushed in beside him, whispering that the door was still open, that it was not too late to turn back.

“Yet what if this is where the Halflings are,” Boromir taunted himself. “Will you then bravely run away and abandon them to their deaths? Aye, a lively man you’d make but a coward’s half a man and doubly so if these Hobbits have taught you anything, you fool.” Determination flared inside him and pushed him forward, his sword raised high when he revealed himself. “Hand over the Halflings!” He shouted.

The smith brought down his hammer once more before turning to face the newcomer. “It’s not often that I have visitors in these parts. More so visitors of your sort,” he added pensively. “Perhaps the time has come to move my shop again.” With a sigh, the man rose from his seat by the anvil and towered over Boromir, his head almost brushing against the mountain hall’s ceiling. “Least you are an admirer of a good smith’s work.”

Before Boromir could react, the stranger had taken his sword and was expertly taking it through an intricate set of swings. “A finely balanced blade, though it could have been tempered better. There are ways to correct the flaws, but I would sooner make a fresh one. Hilt could be salvaged, I suppose.” With a swift swing, he brought the blade against the anvil and broke it just before the guard. “And there’s no sense wasting good steel…”

“What have you done,” Boromir shouted, rushing to take the blade from the man’s hands. “Are you mad? These passes might be crawling with Uruk-hai and you have doomed me by ruining my blade!” A quick glance was enough to reveal that it was broken beyond simple repair. “I’ll have to make do with a hunting dagger,” he mused, eager to leave and resume his blind hunt.

“Ruined? That blade was ruined back when the smith first heated the ore and turned it into a sword without listening to its voice.” Taking the blade from Boromir, the smith threw it into a molten cauldron in which it swiftly sunk. “That was no ore for a blade meant to shed blood. Gore was not what it was its purpose was. Marble and stone, gold and silver, to chisel and hammer at them would have been that ore’s purpose when set to good use.”

“Metal has no voice! There is no purpose to it beyond that which it was made for.” Boromir was barely done speaking when a hammer hit him in the stomach, causing him to double over. A firm grip then guided him to a stool and next thing he knew, his eyes were locked on the bottom of a bucket while his stomach struggled to keep his last meal in.

“That’s it, let it all out, lad!” The smith’s pat on the back broke through Boromir’s restraint and frees up the room taken by the Elven waybread. “Never could stomach the thing myself,” the man confessed, leaving the ailing warrior to his bucket and returning to the forge.  “They make it fresh and…bah, it is far from the best food in Middle Earth.”

As it came out, Boromir had to admit that the taste was not at all flattering. He soon regretted having eaten a whole piece on the Halflings’ challenge since it felt as if it would never end. “Who are you,” he managed to gasp, holding the bucket close just in case. “You’ve just…” His claim at having been attacked died on his lips as the smith swung his hammer down on a hot metal rod and the anvil shook.

The man had not even put his whole strength into the blow.

“Name…hmm, I think Mahal would be best for you to call me by,” he smiled, setting the hammer aside and studying Boromir’s gear.  “What brings you so far from mortal lands?” The man’s fingers ran over the chainmail, easily finding a weakness. “This will not do if you’re to venture out of Mahal’s smithy! To have others say you left me wearing a beggar’s armour would not do!”

Moments passed while Mahal studied Boromir’s stature and the Gondorian tried recalling why the name seemed eerily familiar.  “What are you doing in these mountains?” The warrior asked, no longer able to stand the quietness. “There did not seem to be many people around these parts.”

“There never are,” Mahal didn’t press on, satisfied with his answer. “I come here to work away from the entire world with its thousand small minds and temptations, each so eager to claim possession of what fairly belongs to all.” Looking around the smithy, it did not seem like much, yet Boromir knew that such things could be deceiving. Value and worth were not always remarkable straight away.

Merry and Pippin had taught him that.

“I need to go back,” he struggled to get back to his feet, his stomach still uneasy. “I have friends who are in danger because of me. Do you have a sword you can lend? I do not have much gold as my travel pack was lost, but ask a boon and I will make it yours.” His heart hung over a precipice, waiting for the smith’s reply as to what his fate would be.

When the smith spoke, there was some sadness whose source Boromir could not place. “There are a few things you could aid me with, the first of which would be to make you a new blade.” Powered by an immense enthusiasm, the two began their toil. In short time, what was left of Boromir’s armour was set on the floor as he sweated at the bellows.

“There’s nothing like a good day’s work in the smithy to pass the time,” the blacksmith smiled, hammer crashing onto what was going to be Boromir’s blade. “You will see, the fog will pass and all will be clear.”

They worked for what seemed like hours when Boromir noticed another man watching them from the shadows. He seemed older than both him and the smith, his hair white against a pipe’s glow. His loss of focus was soon noticed when a droplet of hot metal pocked his hand.

“You best be careful, lad! A burn if the smallest of the wounds carelessness can earn you in a place like this.” Mahal turned towards the stranger and smiled, giving him a small nod. “You’ve come later than expected, but your armour and sword are done already.”

Tenderly, the old man rose from his shadowy perch and came nearer until his face was revealed in the forge’s glow. “Aragorn...”

Boromir’s surprise did not let him act until the Dúnedain’s arms were wrapped around him. “It’s good to see you once again,” Aragorn laughed, the hood falling back to reveal the whiteness of his hair, the web of wrinkles and laughter lines that age had marked upon his face. “It has been far too long...”

“How can this be? You’re so...so...”

“So old,” Aragorn laughed, though tears shone in his eyes despite the forge’s heat, while Boromir’s hand ran along his cheek, fingertips brushing against every line that time had left. “And you’re so young I’m afraid we will make a poor pair of adventurers in whatever days may come.”

They both laughed at that and it seemed to burn away at the pain that had always lingered in Boromir’s chest. “What of the Halflings? Are they well?” His eagerness to learn of the two Hobbits came too soon, he feared when he saw Aragorn’s look shift to something stranger.

“Old and fat, filled to the brim on second breakfasts and elevensies,” Aragorn spoke softly as if having to struggle to remember the words. “What is this place,” he asked a moment later, appearing to notice the smithy for the first time. “You find the strangest places for adventures, brave Boromir.”

“I do not feel brave,” the Gondorian mustered. “I failed you, the Hobbits...”

His breath was smothered in the folds of Aragorn’s cloak when the Dúnedain pulled him close, his hand running through Boromir’s hair. “You did not fail anyone,” he whispered. “As your King and Captain, I tell you this and you will not doubt my words, Steward.” There was laughter in those words.

“If you don’t mind,” the smith interrupted, “I would appreciate it if you would try these on before we all pass on to wherever age will drive us.” The two laughed awkwardly and wiped away tears, more or less subtly. Swords were swung and armours bound in place, Steward and King each aiding the other. “Now, this is much better, if I do say so myself.”

Both men were just as pleased with his handiwork, Boromir even more so as he noticed the motif engraved in the chestplate Aragorn wore. The White Tree shone, lit by the forge’s flame just as he had chiselled it under Mahal’s guidance.

It was wonderful.

It was also when a new entrance appeared in the hall right beside them. “It’s time for you to move on,” Mahal smiled. “There’s not much more I can aid you with since I’m not sure what waits for you in the lands beyond that passage.”

“What do you mean,” Boromir asked, suddenly on guard. “Where will it lead us?”

Mahal looked at him, amusement clear on his sooty face. “Well, if you knew that, then it would not be an adventure, would it now?” His impish smile lingered in sight until Aragorn dragged Boromir past the arch which shrank into nothingness behind them. “Even if I knew, I’m sure Mandos would not be too grateful for my spoiling the surprise,” Aulë grumbled, returning to his forge since his visitors had left.

When soot burst out of the forge and covered his tools, he shook his fist at the empty hall, trying to stifle his cough. “If you do not like wanderers stumbling into my halls to wait for those they seek, you should make clearer paths,” he grumbled, sensing his brother’s hand at work. “Not my fault it seems like shoddy work to have one half venture out before the other.”

Always the craftsman, Aulë went to work thinking of what wonderful bond those two made. He wiped away the soot, brushing the smithy clean while recalling the way their energies seemed to flow into one another and balance each other out. They had a steady rhythm and the image became far too clear.

In a faraway grove, two bodies moved as one, meeting the other’s pace even as their breaths quickened with their rhythm. Their motions flowed naturally, hands sliding perfectly over smooth lower backs and fingers slipping perfectly to tease the tiny spaces between vertebras. It was their lips that matched the best and perfection truly shone, Aulë thought.

There was nothing finer than the sound of two pieces sliding into place to form a perfect link.

There was nothing sweeter than the blend of those two set of lips in a kiss.

Yet he rested easy knowing they would try their best to create more.

The desire was a spark within them and it would always burn. 


End file.
